


Free Until They Cut Me Down

by agent_orange



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Break Up, Complicated Relationships, Dogs, Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Nate wakes up to a dent in the covers and a full pot of coffee, the only sign Brad was there at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Until They Cut Me Down

**i.**

Sometimes Nate wakes up to find Brad in his bed. Not in that creepy, heavily-breathing, knife-wielding serial killer way, but on occasion, if he's not deployed or off leading training somewhere remote, the feel of a leg against his own startles Nate awake. Usually, Brad's fully dressed fast asleep on top of the comforter. He always looks so tired, like fighting's taken years from his youth; Nate never has the heart to wake him.

Sometimes Nate wakes up to a dent in the covers and a full pot of coffee, the only sign Brad was there at all.

**ii.**

Ray calls once a week, leaving long, rambling messages on Nate's machine, always at odd hours. He sends an email saying that Ray should try Brad's cell instead, or his home number, that classes take up all the time Nate used to spend listening to rants about organized religion.

A week goes by, and Ray doesn't write back. He doesn't stop calling, either, so Nate learns that an inhalation before a message means it's Ray, and deletes them before listening. It's sort of comforting, in a weird way, that even if he doesn't have Brad, he'll still have Brad's RTO.

**iii.**

When holiday season rolls around, Nate packs up all the clothes Brad left (it's not like he wears anything besides board shorts and T-shirts when he's on libo) and drives to The Salvation Army. The guy greeting people is black-haired and olive-skinned; nothing about him reminds Nate of Brad. But even though Nate wants to, he just can't hand over the box.

"I'm sorry," he says, giving the guy two twenty-dollar bills instead.

Nate puts the box in the back of his closet, buried underneath winter clothes and old books, and tries to forget it's there.

**iv.**

Through Stafford, Nate finds out when Brad's deploying again. He's weighing the pros and cons of meeting Brad at the airport when his phone rings.

"Nate," Brad says. "You didn't invite my parents to your promotion party." He's slurring his words, but he's right. Nate didn't invite the Colberts. It seemed inappropriate.

"Correct," Nate allows.

"You'll look hot in your suit and tie. Want to see. You should take pictures."

"So you can jerk off to them later?" Nate asks. For all he knows, Brad's just getting drunk one last time before deploying and won't remember any of this later.

**v.**

Without his connection to Brad, the guys from Bravo Two seem to distance themselves from Nate. It's not sudden and they're not rude about it, but the news he gets from them slowly wanes. He and Wynn still talk fairly frequently, of course, but Nate stops getting requests from one of his men asking to crash at his place when they're in town. The next time Espera's wife invites Nate for dinner, he goes, but there's a slight, almost unnoticeable difference in the way Poke acts toward him.

Nate's not surprised. Most of them respect Brad more than any officer.

**vi.**

They fuck when Brad gets back. Maybe Nate should be more disturbed by it than he is, but Brad's got his tongue in Nate's mouth almost as soon as he gets to Nate's apartment, so there's no time for that.

Brad kisses the same way, hot and damp and dirty. He fingers Nate open and then slides his cock in, fucking Nate hard enough that he has to clutch the headboard just to stay on the bed. He holds Nate's hips for leverage, hands leaving bruises Nate will feel for days. He's silent when he comes, and then he leaves.

**vii.**

Nate doesn't keep track of anything Brad-related. Not how many times he's gone to bed alone (405); how many days Brad's deployment lasted (182) or how many fellow Marines he saved on his last tour (2). He doesn't know how much being unable to break the habit of buying Brad's food has cost him ($225.56) or how many whores Brad's fucked since they split (3).

He doesn't know any of this. He doesn't keep track. He doesn't obsess about things he can't control or pray to a god he doesn't believe in that Brad won't die in combat.

**viii.**

If asked flat-out, Nate would deny it, but he _does_ think about getting back together again with Brad, what it'd be like, if the eleventh time would be different than the ten before it. He changes his mind that many times in the space of an hour, then gives up and emails Mike. _How's he doing?_ he asks.

 _Fine_ , Mike writes back. _On the outside_.

 _Fuck_. That means neither Mike nor anyone else can really tell. Nate still sees Brad, but only when they're fucking or handing off Sparky, who stays with Brad when he's stateside and Nate otherwise.

**ix.**

Nate decides he needs a change in scenery, that he doesn't want to teach anymore. He goes on a dozen interviews and gets four offers; he chooses the VP of RAND's National Security Division, and moves to Boston. He's happy there, though winter is hard after so many in California. In May, he decides to run for city council, since he's wanted to break into politics for some time now. He hopes Brad won't come out of the woodwork and fuck this up for Nate—yeah, it's Massachusetts, but he's not planning to come out until he's at least governor.

**x.**

_Where the fuck are you?_

I moved to Boston.

_Why didn't you tell me?_

Would it have mattered?

_Now you're just being a dick._

You should really shut up.

_Ooh, someone's sexually frustrated._

Jesus, Brad. You weren't this bipolar during OIF. You can't have both. I know the Corps taught you that.

_What, both my brains and my dick?_

Quit fucking around. We're either together or not.

_Or we can just be._

That sounds like the kind of shit you hate.

_Change of plans, sir. I'll 'just be' in your bed in Boston._

Is that a good idea?

_Coming anyway._


End file.
